Phoenix
by Sleeping Sailboats
Summary: District 13 has been obliterated by the Capitol, leaving Katniss and Finnick as the only survivors. They hide out in District 4 until a familiar face appears at their doorstep, giving them an opportunity to infiltrate the Capitol and bring down the one man that has destroyed countless lives, including their own. Katniss x Finnick
1. Chapter 1

It had become a cycle: Breathe in, breathe out, maybe shed a few tears, repeat. A cycle that I'd been following since I stepped foot in Finnick's shower. With my eyes closed, I would sharply inhale the steam that had clouded around me like a blanket, then let it out at the slowest pace possible, as if I were savoring the moment. In all actuality, I was just giving myself enough time to wake up and realize that this had all been some horrible dream. Of course, I never did, but yet I continued on, _waiting _for the moment that I would jerk awake back in 12—hell, 13 wouldn't be bad either—and tell myself it wasn't real.

"Katniss?"

So caught up in this cycle, I hadn't been aware of the door creaking open. A voice that would normally be soothing nearly gave me a heart attack. "What?" I lashed out, and through the foggy glass I could see him leaned against the wall. The fact that I was naked in the shower while he stood just a few feet away didn't bother me, mostly because my knees were to my chest as I sat on the floor. But it was also because we had seen each other in an even more vulnerable state: In the face of fear, hopelessness, and, above all, grief. So much grief.

"You've been in here for an hour," he informed me as he approached the sliding door. "Are you hiding from me? I know I'm rather gorgeous, but a girl on fire shouldn't be scared off by just a few winks and dazzling smiles." How he can joke at a time like this, I don't know. But since he's Finnick, I allow myself to smirk, one I'm sure he could see despite the steam and glass.

He did, of course. Since we arrived in District 4, he's been searching for any small sign that I'm coping, while I've been doing the same for him. The problem arises, however, that Finnick Odair is a man that can mask his emotions at any time. He rarely tore down that barricade of flirtatious jokes and whispered teases, maybe for the sake of others, maybe his own. So while he easily detected any sign that maybe, just maybe, I could get through this, I would just stare endlessly at his face and wonder if that snow-white smile was real, or if he were just distracting me from the fact that his will to live had been reduced to practically nothing.

I mumbled an incoherent protest as he shut the water off, hating how my skin instantly reacted to the change in temperature. Luckily, Finnick was always two steps ahead, and handed me a fluffy towel that reminded me of the ones in the Capitol. But the Capitol was the last damn thing I wanted to think about.

With numb fingers I attempted to wrap myself in it, but was instead hoisted up and cocooned in the soft fabric as if I were a child. I didn't complain, though, because I was soon pressed against his chest, and that was the one place I needed to be at the moment. He gently threaded his fingers through my wet hair and stroked my back with his other hand, a gesture that was so simple, yet the most comforting feeling.

"I should have been in there, Finnick," I whispered into the crook of his neck, already feeling the tears come on. Crying was something I had become recently accustomed to, and I no longer felt shame for it. It was a human thing to do, after all.

He abruptly stepped away and cupped my face in his hands, turning my gaze upward to meet those tantalizing eyes that I hadn't yet seen evoke a tear. "Do not. Say that." His voice had turned cold, and for a brief moment I felt as though I were being threatened. "You were not there because you were not _meant _to be there. The universe decided that you and I were going to _live_."

"And the universe also decided that everyone else should _die_!" I shrieked, trying to remove myself from his grip. But Finnick, as always, was too strong to let that happen. "Katniss—"

"What? Are you going to deny it? If fate, or whatever the hell you believe in, kept us alive, did it also not kill everyone I loved? The woman _you _loved?" Bringing up Annie was something I always avoided, and the look that crossed Finnick's face was the reason why. His arms slowly dropped to his sides, and though I felt it was in order, I didn't apologize, only stared at the wall behind him.

I knew I would dream of it again tonight, the moment when Finnick and I came over the hill and saw the giant crater that had been blown through the earth, the remnants of weaponry, furniture, even people that had been strewn around in the aftermath of the bombing.

Realizing that everyone in there: Peeta, Gale, Prim, my mother, Beetee, Haymitch, the people I had grown to love, trust, yearn to protect, were dead, and I hadn't gone with them, simply because I had decided to give Finnick a taste of hunting in the woods. My own stupid suggestion, that maybe he hunt on dry land for once. Despite all that Finnick had been saying for the past week, it _had _been my fault.

Grief-stricken, I hadn't initially even thought of the fact that Finnick had been _in _love with one of the Capitol's unfortunate victims (yet another to add to the long list). It had been after two days of sobbing my eyes out that I stopped and thought of Annie. I was still disgusted with how self-absorbed I had been, and had been trying and failing to make it up to him.

Never once did he let on the fact that he was suffering, too. I knew it, of course, but he had been the strong one this whole time. Making all the decisions: We were to sneak into 4 and secretly live in his old home, which is what he decided merely minutes after the discovery of an obliterated 13.

He had been making sure I was eating, checking to see if I was really asleep or just rocking back and forth in bed. It could almost be seen as him parenting me, and in most cases I would have been agitated, but I had actually never been so grateful for what he had done.

Now, here I stood, reminding the one person I had left in this damned world of who he had lost. I hated myself for that, not that I didn't have other reasons to. And it made me angry how he wasn't mad at me. It was a strange feeling, but I wanted him so badly to yell at me and tell me how horrible I was, how I should have been down there in 13 while he and Annie went out for a walk. But Finnick Odair would never breathe such words, at least not to me.

"Katniss," he finally said, in a tone that had most definitely softened, "I've never met a person as deserving of life as you." While I sensed he was lying—Annie had most likely been the one that bore that title in his mind—I didn't speak in opposition. "And the same goes for you," I whispered back. I wasn't lying in the slightest.

His arms surrounded me again, leaving me astounded once again at his effortless ability to forgive. I often wondered what it had took to get to that point, where someone's wrongdoings could just be forgotten with a wave of the hand. Later, I came to the conclusion that that was just who he was. Yet something told me not everyone would be spared from his anger, and there were times when he didn't forgive. President Snow, for example.

Neither him nor I would ever forgive that monstrosity of a person.

* * *

He had brought home fresh fish for dinner, like he always did since we arrived here. Even if I didn't feel hungry at first, just the sight of one of his catches would suddenly leave me famished, and I would eat all of my share, even some of Finnick's when he forced it onto my plate, insisting that he would feed me everything if it meant I would eat.

That's when I had realized that he was afraid I would kill myself. Maybe through starvation, maybe through drowning myself in the nearby ocean, I didn't know what ideas he had running through his mind. He wouldn't be entirely wrong, since there had certainly been a few instances where I felt ready to take some course of action that would result in my death. What stopped me, I wasn't sure, though it could possibly be the fact that I was all Finnick had left. I was only living for someone else.

Dinner, as usual, was quiet. It wasn't an awkward silence, like one you would encounter while being forced to converse with an enemy, just a soundless period of time that felt right. The fish, as always, was terrific, and a part of me felt like if it had been caught by anyone else, it wouldn't taste as good. Finnick had that special touch on everything in life: Why wouldn't it apply to fishing?

After we ate, Finnick lit a fire and we sat in front of it side by side like the two loyal companions we had become. We often found ourselves holding hands. Not as a romantic touch, but as a comforting gesture that communicated to the other that we were still there and always would be.

"Tell me a story," I said to him, suddenly unable to bear the silence. Raising an eyebrow and giving me a crooked smile, he asked what I was hoping to hear about. I paused briefly before suggesting he share a childhood memory.

Nodding, he took a moment to think of one in particular before grinning as it came to him. I couldn't help but reflect his expression back at him—any positive emotion we got from each other made us ridiculously giddy.

"My father," he began, "taught me how to fish when I was five years old. I remember my mother was all worried about me drowning or something irrational like that. We went out to the beach with all of our gear, and I sat and watched him cast the line." He chuckled. "It seemed like a magic trick to me back then, something that only certain people could do, you know?"

Our hands were still linked together, and I absent-mindedly ran a thumb over his knuckles. We both seemed to acknowledge what I did at the same time, although Finnick continued on with his story a second later. "While I'm sitting there with him, waiting for something to bite, he turns to me and says, 'Finn, I'm going to teach you a very important lesson today.' Of course I thought he meant fishing."

"Finally, something bites, and my dad reels in a fish almost as big as I was back then." He grinned and nodded at my doubtful expression. "I'm not exaggerating here! So I'm watching him just reel in this fish and as he starts to gut it, he looks up at me and asks if I want to learn this very important lesson. I nod, and he says with a dead serious expression, 'These fish are a hell of a lot easier to catch than a sane woman.'"

Despite the blatant sexism, I laughed whole-heartedly, which earned me yet another award-winning smile from Finnick. When he looked at me like that, his eyes shining, it made sense to me why all of Panem was in love with him. I felt guilty after such a thought, since it had been these infatuations that landed him in the bind he had longed to evade for years. When he finally did, however, he was met only with tragedy.

I hated to bring an abrupt end to a rare moment of genuine amusement, but with the idea of Snow's prostitution ring fresh on my mind, I couldn't resist the urge to blurt out what was brewing on my lips. Would I regret it afterwards? If my past conversations with almost anyone were any indication, then most likely, yes. But I've never been one for holding my tongue, especially when something is bothering me.

"I realize, now," I said quietly, my heart sinking as I watched Finnick's breath-taking smile disappear, "that I could have very easily been roped into the same…business as you." He said nothing, just stared at the crackling flames that briefly reminded me of the attire I had worn in the opening ceremonies of the Games. _Cinna…_

"Why didn't Snow do the same to me as he did to you?"

His averted his eyes from the fire and bore them into mine, making me want to turn away. But I didn't. I had brought this up, after all. "You expect me to know the answer to that, Katniss?" I honestly hadn't, and had just been speculating aloud, but now that I saw the position I had just put him in, I didn't hesitate to look away from him this time, angling myself to the left. "I'm sorry."

Much to my surprise, I felt arms encircling my waist from behind, drawing me up against him. It seemed like we were always touching, whether it be our feet when sitting at the dinner table, or gently bumping shoulders while walking across the beach at dawn. "Don't be sorry," he whispered into my ear. The warmth from his breath seemed to transfer over to me, and I felt my face flush.

"Why is it always everyone else but me?"

"Hm?" His chin was resting on my shoulder.

"You're forced into prostitution. Peeta gets hijacked by the Capitol. Cinna is beaten then killed protecting me. My father dies in the mines. Why doesn't this happen to _me_?" The words sounded foolish coming out of my mouth, especially since it was the mouth of a person who has been in the Hunger Games.

Finnick hugged me tighter, and I closed my eyes, repeating the cycle I had done in the shower, with the exception of crying. I was done with that, at least for today. I liked how he didn't just deny whatever I said, because he knew that would do nothing. Instead, he does a very Finnick-esque thing: He just stays there, and heals you with his mere presence. How he _does _that will always be a mystery to me.

It was just his touch that did all the comforting, what told me that everything was going to be okay, and that it wasn't my fault. That was what I would always love about Finnick Odair—he could say so much without speaking a word.

"You need to rest," he finally mumbled into my shoulder, planting a small kiss on my cheek as he pulled away. It made me a little embarrassed how badly I wanted him to come back and hold me again, to silence the demons that brutally screamed in every nook of my brain, never letting me stop and breathe.

"So do you," I pointed out, trying to be the caretaker for once. "When was the last time you even took a nap?" Shrugging with a mischievous smile, he comfortingly wrapped his arm around me as we headed upstairs. "Let me guess, sleep is for the weak?" I tried. He shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Miss Everdeen. Sleep is for the privileged, the ones who can close their eyes without being afraid of not waking up."

* * *

We've been sharing a bed, ignoring the fact that there is another one right down the hall I could use. But the thought of waking up from a recollection of charred corpses and acrid smoke without Finnick there to stop me from screaming keeps me from moving to the other room.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes awake with the wrong idea, finding myself in the arms of Panem's sex symbol. But it takes less than a heartbeat for me to remember that this is my best friend—my only friend left, really—who keeps me from going insane.

The sun was barely up when we heard knocking.

Almost simultaneously, we bolted upright and looked at each other frantically, fearing this it was the end. It could be ten Peacekeepers standing outside, or maybe, if we were to ever be that unlucky, President Snow himself, holding a white rose as we waved our white flag.

"Stay here," Finnick orders me, and he doesn't seem the least bit taken aback when I follow him down the stairs. If he's being arrested, killed, or worse, kept alive for Snow's enjoyment, I'm going with him. All of District 13 has already suffered without me, and I refused to let the same thing happen with us.

We were nearing the door when the knocks sounded again, causing a wave of nausea to envelope me. Finnick, his hand on the doorknob, casted an uneasy glance over his shoulder at me, as if asking if he were making the right choice. I just hold up in defeat—there is no right choice at this point.

As it turns out, however, I was wrong, because who else would be standing in front of the house than Effie Trinket.

**Hm…not too sure how I feel about this. It's definitely not as awful as I thought it would be, but it's definitely not something I'll be boasting about. :D I know that HG fics are often pushed off the pages pretty quick, so I hope someone is managing to read this! I'll be posting more soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, just... what? I am genuinely _shocked _at the positive reviews, and the follows/favs you were nice enough to give me. I definitely didn't like the first chapter (I always struggle with those), but it feels good to know I'm not as bad as I think :D I promise that things are going to be more interesting and the writing will get better, just bear with me until we get there. Anyway, thank you soo much and I already love you all**

**Quick A/Ns: Effie is technically OOC. Obviously, the events of _Mockingjay _have been altered: The bombing takes place the day that Peeta comes to 13. Anything following that "didn't happen." Also, please excuse the slight change in tense.**

Katniss Everdeen isn't the face of a rebellion, nor the symbol of hope. Despite what all the propos proclaimed to all of Panem, I was not anything spectacular, at least not in my eyes. I did not want people to look at me for guidance, reassurance, or even positivity, because there wasn't even enough of that in my own self that I could offer to anyone. But while I didn't want to be seen as anything great, I didn't want to be seen as anything weak. I didn't want someone to look at me and see some wounded animal that was on the verge of just curling up into a ball and dying. All I wanted for my image was a girl who was getting by in the awful world I had been born into. Yet as soon as I laid eyes on a slightly disheveled Effie, I burst into tears.

Finnick is the first to speak, as I can't say anything coherent through my sobbing. "Effie! Come in," he welcomes her, as if this weren't as big of a revelation as it were. He ushers me over to a couch as she hobbles inside, her eyes giving off no impression that she is, in fact, alive and well. I hate her seeing me like this, the steel-hearted girl on fire now reduced to an emotional wreck of a person. But here stands a woman who I had assumed would be executed, simply because she had taken my side, another person whose death I would feel responsible for. She's here, she's breathing. While maybe less than lively on the inside, her heart is beating, and in this God-forsaken country, that's considered lucking out.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, gently pushing on my shoulders so I sink into the soft cushions.

"Water, please," she rasps in a very not-Effie tone, staring ahead at nothing in particular. She's in a chair perpendicular to the couch, and I want to desperately reach over and grab her hand, except my own are too occupied frantically wiping tears, tears that never seem to cease. I hate crying. It's a human thing to do, but I hate it.

I'm finally able to control my staggered breaths and I reach for her, not even bothering to stretch to meet her fingers. I want her to lift up her hand herself, to confirm to me yet again that someone I cared about is still here, still functional, and not a burnt corpse in 13 or a head mounted on Snow's wall. Those damn tears nearly come back when she slowly mirrors my action and our fingertips brush against each other before entwining. While I'm sure my face is crumbling into some horrid-looking expression that always follows a bout of crying, hers remains a blank slate of pure nothing. "You're alive," I whisper, stating the obvious. Although to me, it's not obvious. Not yet. Maybe I'll wake up in Finnick's bed any moment and have to remind myself that everyone besides him is dead.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Finnick, in the corner of my eye, stumbles a bit in surprise as he returns with a generous glass of water. Those words are ones you only hear once someone is, mentally, long gone. When they're simply a moving body, and not a person with a soul. "Effie," I mumble, feeling the blood drain from my face. "Don't...don't say that." Finnick takes a seat beside me and I feel his hand rest on my thigh, as if I'm the one who needs comfort. I see Effie's eyes fall down to my lap where we're touching, and I realize she has the wrong idea. "You feel fortunate to be alive," she says flatly, "because you still have the one you love."

Had this comment been made under any different circumstances, any at all, such a comment would make me feel embarrassed or awkward. But instead, I just shake my head and search her eyes for any flicker of life. "Effie, we're not in love. We're just...we've been there for each other. Since...the bombing." Nodding her head, she smirks and curses under her breath. "Yes. The bombing." She begins to ask a question, then seems to convince herself otherwise. Her face falls even more, and I know that whatever she was about to inquire, she already knows the answer. "Haymitch," is all she decides to utter, looking me dead in the eye. "He was in 13."

Biting my lip to hold back any pathetic sounds, I just nod. What else can I do, or what can I say that would maybe soften the blow? The truth is, we both cared about Haymitch. We had both lost him, not just one of us. I can't comfort her, she can't comfort me: We are grieving together. Although it seems we had different kinds of feelings for him. Finnick quickly comes to the same conclusion. "Was it Haymitch?" he asks without hesitation. "Was he the one you loved?" Her expression has finally changed, for both better and for worse. Tears streaming down her face through white powder, she smiles sadly and whispers, "He loved me, too. He told me the night before the Quell. The last time I saw him..." She squeezes her eyes shut and shelters them with her hands, starting to rock back and forth.

What do you say? What "wisdom" do you offer? Deciding to skip any vocal consolation, I just fall to my knees and throw my arms around her, murmuring nothing in particular into that wig that I have always hated, yet now love seeing her wear, because despite it all, Effie Trinket is still all dressed and made up as Effie Trinket. Her hands clutch at my back as she lets loose a sob I can tell she's been holding inside, and I just pat her in reassurance, that it's okay, it's okay. Finnick, not surprisingly, joins me on the carpet and somehow manages to hold us both. I think it's an hour that we all just stay in that position, just mourning the loss of our whole worlds.

* * *

She had come straight from the Capitol, Snow having decided that since 13 was now nothing but ash, he no longer cared whether she died or not. The Peacekeepers turned her loose, under the condition she stay loyal to the Capitol. When Finnick asked how she knew we were here, she had just shrugged and said, "Katniss Everdeen and Finnick Odair don't die," then excused herself to go upstairs and rest. If her looks weren't deceiving, she hadn't slept in days, even on the train.

Figuring she would be hungry when she woke up, whenever that would be, I make my way into the kitchen and start to rummage around for something she can hold down. Fish, probably not, so I put together a small plate of the first things I find. I realize that I'm just standing there now, looking down at the crackers and whatever the hell else I had grabbed. When I turn to leave, Finnick's staring in the doorway, scaring me half to death. "You need a bell or something," I awkwardly joke, not knowing if humor is appropriate right now. Luckily for me, Finnick's nice enough to smile at my sad attempt to maintain normality, or at least what we've deemed as such for the past week. He follows me back into the living room, where he's already started a fire. Two steps ahead of me, as usual. There are times where I swear this man is reading my mind.

We take our seats in front of the fire, our routine having not changed a bit with Effie's appearance. Except this time, we don't hold hands, a decision we seem to make mutually. Because we're both thinking of Effie, how she doesn't have Haymitch like we have each other. She has us, of course, but it's different when you're with a partner. Whether it be a romantic one, a friend, it doesn't matter. A partnership, the idea of being with your better half, makes you forget about any newly-inflicted scars. Permanently, no, but you take what you can get in this day and age.

"I miss her," he says finally, and I would have to be completely thick to ask who he's referring to. Although we're approaching a sensitive topic, I feel a strange eagerness, because it's his turn to be sad now. If I'm honest, this hasn't been a partnership, it's been him just picking me up each time I fall, nursing me back to health each and every day. And one of my biggest fears is Finnick thinking I don't care, that I'm too wrapped up in my own suffering to give his any thought, when the reality of it is that I care about him ten times more than I care about myself. Maybe that's unhealthy, to prioritize someone's well-being above your own, but it's what I've always done. With Prim, with Peeta. Unfortunately, my efforts had been for naught, since they're both nothing now but remnants of an explosion, a memory to look back to and _tsk _about how tragic it had been. I refused to let the same happen with Finnick, to let him become just a casualty.

"She was a wonderful person," I try, hoping that it'll encourage him to continue. While all of Panem wanted Finnick's body, I wanted his mind, or at least a glimpse into it. Was it selfish to use Annie as a way of doing that? If he didn't want to keep talking, I wouldn't pry, but I wanted him to, almost desperately. But all he does is smile. Genuinely, too, not the empty smile that you force onto your face. "She was. And I..." The smile is gone, and it's like when a raindrop catches your eye then instantly falls, and you feel like you never saw it all. "I was going to marry that girl." He laughs bitterly and I see his jaw clench. "It's my fault, you know." Before I can even begin to protest he's shaking his head, and I know nothing I can say at this point will change his mind. "No, Katniss. You don't understand." For a moment it looks as though he's having trouble breathing, and it's then that I grab his hand, forgetting our wordless agreement. He tightens his hold on my fingers, then slackens, his eyes drooping a little as he seems to calm down. "Katniss. She asked to go with us. Go hunting. And I told her _no_. I told her to _stay and rest_. So, she stayed in 13. We leave, we kill a squirrel, come back, and there's pillars of smoke just billowing into the air."

He's almost hysterical, but he manages to steady himself. Teeth clenched, he looks at me with such stony eyes I feel for a moment like I'm facing a sculpture that could have been made in his honor, erected in District 4 or the Capitol to remember the trident-armed victor that had proven age was a mere number that you didn't have to let define you. "And you know what I thought of, Katniss? I thought of the jabberjays. In the arena. When I heard her voice calling out for me, crying for help. And while we were staring at all that smoke, all the ash, I wondered if she had done that: When she was hearing the first bomb drop, did she scream my name? She would want me there with her, wouldn't she? And I wasn't. I had abandoned her. I hear those jabberjays every night." He jabs a finger against the side of his in emphasis. "Except they're not jabberjays anymore, are they? It's her..."

Voice faltering, he turns away, and starts this awful trembling that you'd probably only see him do once in his lifetime.

After his Games, Caesar Flickerman had roared into the camera about "the magnificent Finnick Odair, the skilled, fearlessly combative man at just fourteen years of age!" Everyone looked at him and saw someone charming, risk-taking, and above all, confident. Not one would think of him as man that could hurt, could feel guilt, self-hatred. While they believed him to be so many things, no one thought of him as a human being.

"You didn't know...you didn't know it was going to happen, Finnick." The shaking stops, and I know it's not because he feels better. I've felt this exact feeling before, the feeling where everything goes still, the world patiently waiting for you to fully lose it. "Close your eyes, please." I'm unsure whether or not I hear him correctly, so I just look at him quizzically. Closing my eyes is the last thing I want to do, to not be able to see him anymore. I need to keep watching him, because I'm afraid if I don't, he'll go. He'll leave me. An irrational fear, but one that's always burdened me since the death of my father. I hadn't been keeping my eye on him when we went down to the mines, to the hellholes that had taken him from me.

"Close your eyes, Katniss." Finally, I oblige, but grip his hand tighter so I would know if he were to leave. "Stay," I quietly plead, and although he doesn't respond, I know he doesn't intend to. What he does, however, is far worse. I think he's just going to cry silently, and just doesn't want me to see. But I'm wrong. So incredibly wrong. Instead he lets out a heart-breaking wail that is soon muffled by what I assume is his other hand. My arm finds its way around his neck and I pull him close to me, where he empties about a week's worth of grief.

* * *

Tonight I'm the one holding him, gently tracing patterns onto his back as he jerks awake throughout the night after coming out of dreams that I assume to be of Annie. Finally, he resides to silence and rests his head on my shoulder. We're lying parallel and facing each other, attempting to isolate ourselves from the rest of the world. From Snow, the prying eyes of the Capitol, the people who think we've died along with everyone we love. It's two in the morning when he mumbles my name. "Yeah?"

"Don't die."

"I don't intend to."

Even in the dark I see his eyes, and they're not looking at me, but into me. We no longer just _see_ each other anymore. Instead, we revisit times from our lives, times when we were together, and others when we weren't. But even though Finnick wasn't there when my father died, or when Gale had been whipped in District 12's square, I feel like he remembers those moments, like he had been sitting next to me when my mother said that one of the most important people in the world to me wouldn't be coming home from work, or he had sung his goodbyes to Rue with me before helping gather flowers to surround her with. He was there. He felt what I felt. And occasionally I truly believe that.

"Finnick?"

"Hm?" His head is on my shoulder again, mine on his.

"I want him dead."

"Who?"

"Caesar. Who do you think?" He actually chuckles. "Okay," he sighs sleepily.

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Except you know it's not a simple task."

"I do. That's why I'm asking you to help me."

"You want me as your accomplice."

"If that's what you want to go by, sure."

We're quiet again, and for the first time, I don't like that. I want sound, more specifically Finnick's voice. But I don't try to evoke that from him, because it seems he's finally fallen into a somewhat peaceful sleep. I guess the idea of Snow's blood all over your clothes can calm you.

* * *

Effie is already seated on the couch when we come downstairs, her makeup and wig gone. "You're beautiful," I blurt out, taken aback by the fact that such a naturally beautiful woman caked on a pound of makeup each and every day. The ways of the Capitol would always confuse me. "And your hair!" While definitely looking slept on, somehow still looked glamorous in short, golden waves. For years she had hidden under a wig, and that disappointed me. Effie Trinket was gorgeous, and I was pretty sure no one else knew that. Except maybe Haymitch. But I didn't want to think about that.

It's then that I see a small spark of life in what had once been dull blue orbs, and she omits a smile. "Thank you," is all she says, but it's enough for me. I just grin ridiculously and take a seat beside her while Finnick goes to make tea. "How are you doing?" Even though I hate being asked that question, I do it anyway. I know she'll probably just lie, say she's getting through things fairly well, and she's feel better eventually. But it's like Haymitch had said, "You never get off this train." Life happens: Your loved ones die, everything you've known is lost, and there's _nothing _you can do but accept it and try to recuperate. But you won't. Not as much as you need to.

She won't look at me, so I place my fingers under her chin and tilt her face upwards like I'm her mother. "Effie," I whisper. "We're going to kill him." For a moment her expression remains monotonous, then a small crooked smile plays at her lips. "Snow?" I return the smile and nod almost a bit too eagerly. "Yes, Snow. Finnick and I are going to find a way to get into the Capitol and kill him. For Annie, Peeta, my sister. Haymitch." Her smile has widened, and had this been any other person we were plotting to kill, this may have been considered sick and twisted. But that was the definition of President Snow himself.

"Oh, girl on fire," she sighs, patting my leg, "I'm way ahead of you."

**I guess this is better than the first chapter? Again, we're still getting to the better chapters, I promise! Anyway, I'm mainly continuing with this because writing has been very therapeutic for me recently, so hopefully you're still able to enjoy it. Next chapter revolves around the three of them devising a plan, and Katniss's feelings toward Peeta. I'll make it longer, too, so don't worry. **

**Thank you so much for following xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**I was in a rush and couldn't proofread, so I apologize for any errors. Will be 2014 by Ch. 4, so Happy New Year!**

District Four is so ethereal, you hesitate to alter any part of it. Even by sitting on the shore, you wince at the thought of the sand you've disturbed, spreading it out to places it doesn't belong. Its crystalline oceans hypnotize you in a way that's almost frightening, because who knows what they could eventually distract you from. Furthermore, in the presence of those you love, it all becomes a refuge. Here, there are no impurities, just the sound of waves and the glow of the sun. With Effie sitting next to me on the beach and Finnick standing mere feet away as he casts a line into the glassy water, a part of me never wants to leave this all behind for the Capitol. Even if doing so would mean the end of President Snow, the possibility doesn't seem as satisfying as District Four is in this moment. Maybe we would all be better off if we just stayed here. We could all just grow old together, away from the world for good. It could very well be considered an act of cowardice, but it was a desirable option nonetheless.

No one has found us here, and, if Finnick is right, no one ever will. This is a piece of Four that he had claimed as his own years ago, just a short while after his victory in the Games. From his house in the Victor's Village, it's quite a walk, but since we've arrived here, we've never once considered going someplace else. I like having yet another thing to keep to ourselves, seeing as the Capitol doesn't even allow you to do that with your personal life. Once you're out of that arena, nothing is yours. It's all theirs.

"Your prep team is on their way." My eyes dart away from the horizon that's enthralled me, staring wide-eyed at Effie. "They are?" The thought of my three Capitol creations coming all the way down to Four to _help _me seemed as improbable as President Snow issuing a sincere apology to the country ("My dear citizens, I am sorry for making your lives a living hell"). Effie picks up on my bewilderment and smiles reassuringly. "They are. Flavius, Octavia, and Venia. The whole team. This morning, I phoned Octavia and let her know what had happened with Thirteen, and that the two of you were here in Four. As soon as I finished speaking, she told me that her and the others were going to be on the next train." She reaches out and takes my hand gently, like she's worried she'll startle me. "We all want to help you, Katniss. You and Finnick." She gestures with her head to our favorite fisherman, busily gutting a handsome catch. "It's only a matter of days before they'll arrive. In the meantime, we can formulate a plan."

I nervously toy with the end of my braid, a hairstyle I have still continued to wear in tribute to my mother. No matter the number of years that will follow her death, I will always be able to twist my hair into the patterns that she did, and maybe pretend that it's her hands doing it and not mine. "But if we're being honest here, I don't think they're that skilled in combat," I worry, hoping I don't emit any disrespect toward them. Fortunately, she just chuckles and shakes her head. "Of course not. But violence isn't going to be our initial approach." No violence in Panem is a strange concept, one that hasn't been fathomed for seventy-five years. There's always been the Hunger Games, Peacekeepers staring you down on the street. We've all been raised in a world where pitting young children against each other is morally acceptable. Or, at least, in the Capitol's eyes. But that's all that has mattered anymore. If the districts had any say in what was right or wrong, it would be a completely transformed society. No more Hunger Games.

"What are you suggesting, then?" I ask, smiling in approval to Finnick as he grins at me from across the beach**—**he's showcasing our next meal like a proud artist. I love this beach, mostly because of the way it makes us feel. We stop thinking about Thirteen for a minute and we just breathe.

"Disguise!" Effie declares, nearly returning to her Capitol squeak. "If there's one thing your prep team and I have ever learned in our lives, it's how to dress. Or at least, how to dress like everyone else." She sees my confused expression and continues, almost giddy. "Once they're here, we're going to make you and Finnick up to be Capitol citizens! Hair, makeup, clothes, everything. By the time they're done with you, you won't even recognize yourselves!" I've experienced that feeling far too much. Even in Cinna's beautiful designs, I don't see Katniss Everdeen. I see the victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. A title that is supposed to hold value, but instead feels like a burden. But even I have to admit that Effie's idea is brilliant, far better than anything I would come up with. "And then what?" I press, feeling myself become a little eager, too. "Once we're in the Capitol, we have to find some way to get Snow alone."

Biting her lip, she nods and stares at the sand in thought. "That's the tricky part. The Capitol is a social hierarchy**—**not just _anyone _can get to have a little chat with the president of Panem. It took you and Peeta winning the Hunger Games to just get an invite to a party." Neither of us acknowledge the fact that we've mentioned someone we'd rather not think of at the moment. "What I'm thinking is that we're going to have to make our way into some social circles...mingle, make a few friends..." As usual, the thought springs to mind that making friends is not my forte. "You and Finnick will have to do that part," I sigh. "You're both more charismatic." Effie rolls her eyes. "Katniss, you've managed to make thousands love you. You're the girl on fire, remember? Everyone _adored _you. Just do the same thing under a new identity." I groan. "We need aliases." She looks horrified at my reaction. "But of course! If I introduce you to one of Snow's advisers as Katniss Everdeen, we won't fare too well, now will we?" That earns her a smile, because for once I feel like I'm talking to Effie Trinket again.

* * *

Over dinner, we fill Finnick in on the details we had worked out. I had been a little nervous he would be upset that we had done all this planning without him, but he doesn't seem the least bit bothered. "That's a great idea, Effie!" he exclaims as he raises his glass of wine in praise. "You're one of the few Capitol citizens I've met that could qualify as a genius. In fact, you're the only one." She blushes at the flattery, and I chuckle at the realization that this is just Finnick doing what Finnick does best. It'll serve us well once we're in the Capitol.

"I really do think this could work," she says excitedly, looking to me for support. I just smile and nod, knowing that Finnick doesn't need much convincing at this point. No matter what we devise, as long as it results in vengeance for Annie's death, he'll be on board. "I started playing around with the idea when I was on the phone with Octavia, and she said that Flavius and Venia would do anything to see the two of you in Capitol couture!" I don't doubt that for a second, still remembering my first day in the Capitol: my prep team busily ripping sheets of wax from my legs, primping every inch of me so that I could look pretty for people that had intended to watch me die from the comfort of their couch. At first, I had felt resentment toward the trio, the ones who had made me something I was not. But now, that was exactly what I wanted them to do.

"But Effie..." I regret speaking almost immediately, extinguishing the small fire we had going. "I thought the Capitol only agreed to let you live if you were loyal to them." Finnick knows where this is going, his smile vanishing. I _hate _it when that happens. He's been my candle, lighting up enough space in this dark world for my days to be bearable. It's almost become a rule: When Finnick isn't happy, neither are you. There has been no instance in which I'm smiling and he's not. He's always taking the initiative, keeping me from descending to a place I do not want to be. Effie shrugs and prods her share of fish with her fork. "Well, I suppose my life is on the line, then." I'm already objecting, about to spew out a speech about why she must stay out of this plan, when she brushes her fingers over mine. We've become big hand-holders, and it may seem romantic or overly-affectionate, but it's what we do. It's more subtle than grabbing someone by the shoulders and shaking them, but more effective than just mumbling encouragement. At this point, hand-holding can mean a variety of things, from "It's going to be okay," to "Calm the hell down."

I stop my worldless rambling and impatiently wait for her to say something. Funnily enough, she says the one thing that could convince me to let her be a part of this (assuming I would have any control over it, which I probably wouldn't). "I stopped giving a damn about the Capitol when you saluted Eleven after Rue's death. Or, I started to. But following that, you've done nothing but make me realize that something has to be done. You were willing to die doing so, therefore I am, too. Besides..." Her eyes are threatening to spill tears, but I know she won't do it. She's done crying, as am I. We're going to fight now. "If I do actually die, at least I get to see them all. Peeta, Cinna...Haymitch." The idea of an afterlife has always seemed a bit strange to me, and has always struck me as wishful thinking. However, with death becoming a strong possibility for the three of us, you can't help but hope all those wishful thinkers have been right all along. Maybe I _could _leave Panem behind, get to spend an eternity with Prim, Peeta, everyone who had mattered. Just the thought of it almost makes death seem like an appealing fate. Could it all be true, though? Would you suddenly open your eyes and find yourself someplace else, a place you'd never tire of? For me, that would be the beach here in Four. Except maybe that beach wouldn't be the same without Finnick there.

"Well," I rasp, looking across the table at my companion. "Are we going to do this, Finnick?" He pretended to look thoughtful, as if he had to consider it at all. "Depends. Does it result in Snow's head on a platter?" I surprised myself with a dark chuckle, shrugging in defeat. "Who knows anymore. At this point, it's just us trying to go out with a bang." So it's a suicide mission now. Snow could very well be dead in a matter of weeks, but if our corpse is lying next to his, it's not so much of a victory anymore, is it?

Finnick smiles crookedly and holds up his hands in what looks like submission. "Might as well, then." He leans forward intently, looking as though he'll divulge a secret, just like all the clients he has visited over the years. I wonder what he does with them, the whispered knowledge that he is given. I'd ask him if it weren't so relevant to a part of his past he may not want to revisit. At least that's all it is now: The past. "But even with Snow dead, the Games can still go on, the districts will continue to put on a show for the Capitol. We'd have to overthrow the entire government to actually cause something long-term." He's right, as usual, and it bothers me the thought hadn't occurred till now. Effie and I had started become crazed with the image of Snow slumped over in his chair, or with an arrow through the heart. They were murderous thoughts that I would normally not condone, yet I welcomed them with open arms into the niches of my brain, because they belonged there after all I had endured. Unfortunately, they had become a distraction from the practical, logical way of thinking. I guess that was why Finnick was here**—**to get our heads out of the blood-stained clouds.

"It wouldn't be easy, but we could probably do it," Effie speculates, drumming her fingers on the table. "Again, it's all about the connections in the Capitol. About two years ago, I was invited to a dinner party at Seneca Crane's. Why? Because my friend had befriended his sister during the 72nd Games. They went to lunch one afternoon and she started talking about fashion. My friend then mentioned how knowledgeable I was of fabrics, and for some reason the sister just became extremely interested. She then wanted to ask me some questions about her new dress, and if it were genuinely made of whatever the tag claimed. So she told Seneca to invite me and he personally sent me an invitation! Just that one little link landed me a seat at his table. Not to mention that there were plenty of opportunities in which I could have gotten him alone if I wanted to. Had Seneca been the one you wanted to kill, it could have been done." Finnick nods, seeming to put two and two together faster than I am. "So it's a word-of-mouth type of thing? You get involved in certain social groups, people start talking about you, someone overhears, and then you slowly make your way up." Effie gestures to him in affirmation. He stares into space for a second or two before holding up a finger**—**he has an idea.

"The Capitol is all about gossip. If what you say is true about their social interactions, you can not only get them to say things about you, but what you're _saying_." He looks up, sees that neither of us understands, and goes on, growing a bit more animated. "If all goes as planned, we will be invited to an event that Snow is hosting. But he doesn't have to invite us because he likes us. What if he were to invite us over because he's concerned, or threatened? We start talking about how the Games should end, how corrupt the Capitol is, everything we believe. Snow catches wind of what we're saying, and how we're slowly starting to convince his lapdogs**—**no offense, Effie—that he's not the kind of leader he wants to be perceived as. He finds out our 'names,' gets us on the guest list, wants to assess us during one of his parties. Eventually, he's going to want to have a personal conversation, would he not? He sends someone to tell us he wants to privately speak with us." I realize a smile is growing on my face, an expression that is similar to Effie's as we both admire his sheer genius. She suddenly laughs, grinning into her wine glass as she sips from it. "I wonder what my old friends from the Capitol would say, if they could see me right now. They'd think I had gone crazy."

"You have," I point out jokingly, to which she just sighs and nods her head. "I suppose so." Giggling, she lifts her glass. "Down with the Capitol, then." I hold up mine, and over the rim I see Finnick, drink in hand, looking as charming as ever. We're finally doing it, what people should have done years ago. They must not have had the courage, nor the perseverance. But we do. Finnick catches me watching him, and I expect him to tease me about how attractive I must find him, but instead he just looks at me with such warmth, you'd think I'd saved him from something. So far, all I've done is put myself in positions where _he _needed to save _me. _Finnick, however, does it anyway, makes me feel like I've done something great, because he's just that good of a friend.

"Down with the Capitol," we repeat. We all drink together, sealing our pact.

* * *

It's strange, because for the first time, we're not touching while we lay in bed. We're side by side, both staring restlessly at the ceiling. There's a faint buzz of adrenaline in the room, even in the middle of the night, our newly formulated plan fresh on our minds. We've become children that are looking forward to their birthday, wanting it to be tomorrow so we can open our presents. Is that sick of us? So excited with the idea of someone's death that we can't sleep? Perhaps, but everything we've experienced in our lives has been sick. Why not have control over part of the sickness for once?

"Can't sleep?" he murmurs.

"Nope."

He chuckles, and I feel his fingers slowly make their way over mine before they intertwine. So things _aren't _going to be different than before. I'm okay with that. "Are you scared?" he asks. "No. Are you?" I look sideways at him, his profile still striking at this hour. Even when sleep-deprived, Finnick Odair looks good. I feel no shame in admitting that, because it'd be more strange to state otherwise. Since his face first appeared on television, it's become a well-known fact that he was attractive. That's why, after all, Snow plucked him from his home and gave him a list of people who would want to spend the night with him. They're all willing to tell him a secret, something they swore they would take to the grave, just for the opportunity to touch his chest or run their fingers through his hair. I wonder how many times he's laid awake like he is now, except a Capitol citizen is stretched out beside him, making him want to be anywhere else in the world but trapped under their sheets.

"Maybe I am scared. Except right now, it just feels...exciting. The idea of it all working out, I mean." He turns his head and meets my gaze, not making me feel uncomfortable in the slightest, unlike his approaching me at the chariots before the Quell. Back then, he had been nothing but the flirtatious Capitol darling that would trick you into thinking he was in love with you. Offering me sugar cubes, asking for my secrets...he was just as people had described him. Now, I saw him as nothing but Finnick. "Is that bad?" He actually sounds worried. "Here I am, still awake because I'm too thrilled by the thought of someone being _dead__._" If I told him it weren't, I would be lying. "Who cares if it's bad?" I decide to tell him. "No matter what, you're just normal, or as normal as someone would be in your situation." Exhaling slowly, he looks back up again. "Sure doesn't feel like it sometimes, you know?" Our hands are lifted into our sight as he seemingly studies my knuckles, fingernails, things that shouldn't mean anything but just suddenly do. "I often have to remind myself that I don't have to be a victor anymore. There's no more interviews, cameras, no more tributes for me to mentor. They'll find someone else to do that," he adds darkly. "I'm more than that. They see me throwing tridents and killing people in the Games without a blink of the eye, but they don't see the complete _turmoil _that goes on." Shaking his head, he softly places our hands back down on the sheets, and I hear him hesitate to say something. "Katniss?" he finally utters, my name preceded by a quiet yawn. "Hm?" I feel myself gradually becoming tired as well, and I hope this will be the time of the night we're actually able to fall asleep.

"Did you love Peeta?" Or maybe not.

"What?"

"There was a whole facade going on for the Games, I get that. But my question is, what about the times when you didn't have to be the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve? I used to think I had an idea of what kind of relationship you two had, but then I would see your face when I resuscitated him during the Quell, or just the way you spoke to each other. Well, then I was confused all over again." I'm dead silent, not quite sure why this is being brought up. "So did you?" he asks again. Although I'm a little disoriented by the question, I admire his shamelessness in asking questions. Instead of timidly asking where the boundaries are set, he just bluntly tries to figure it out. What can he ask? What shouldn't he ask? Those questions aren't on his mind. Instead he says everything he wants to say and sees what you object to. It's a brave way of life**—**just one wrong word can land you your worst enemy, or maybe your greatest friend. I wonder how he does it. Not that he would have to be cautious with _me__, _because as long as he's Finnick, there are no boundaries.

Did I love Peeta Mellark? It was hard to answer that question, seeing as our last interaction was him trying to choke me to death. Except that hadn't been _my _Peeta, _my _boy with the bread. So while I certainly hadn't loved the "new" Peeta, the product of the Capitol's favorite pastime: Hijacking. _My _Peeta wasn't like that. "I will always love him," I try, "but whether or not I was _in _love with him is debatable." No one ever likes that answer, the whole, "I don't know if I loved him," speech in which I tearfully explain how I can "never love again" after whatever happened. "Besides," I yawn, turning onto my side so I'm facing him. "Loving someone is dangerous, anyway." He copies my action so, like almost every other night, we're looking right at each other. "Unless they're worth it." I smirk. "Yes. Unless they're worth it." Peeta would have been worth it, had I been in love with him. And he was more than I would ever deserve. _Something _kept me from loving him, though, something I couldn't place. I wanted to find out, though, because now it bothered me that I hadn't fallen in love with someone as wonderful as Peeta Mellark. If I couldn't love someone like _him_, who the hell c_ould _I commit to?

"You know that answer isn't enough for me, Katniss." I groan and pull the blanket over my head for a brief moment. It's too late to think about these kinds of things, especially when the subject matter is no longer in your life. When I uncover my face, I see that Finnick looks genuinely interested in the topic at hand, and that almost makes me nervous. "I guess..." My voice trails off and I try to look everywhere but him. "I was afraid." His hand cups my cheek, sea green eyes pleading for me to continue. "What were you afraid of?" I chuckle bitterly. "If I were to love Peeta, the Capitol wins. The image they created for us, the star-crossed lovers, that becomes a reality. I was afraid of giving Snow the satisfaction of seeing that I was actually in love, that his threats had genuinely shaped me into who he wanted me to be." That's the truth, isn't it? It's not that I don't know why I wasn't in love with Peeta**—**that's just my twisted mind trying to keep me from facing the fact that I am stubborn and selfish. "So to answer your question," I mumble, "I was never in love with Peeta, but that's just because I didn't take the opportunity to do so, all out of resistance of the Capitol." I feel suffocated by shame, like smoke clouding the air around me. "Because that's just who I am, Finnick." Of course he doesn't look disgusted, or even remotely disappointed in my refusal to let things be. He just presses a kiss to my forehead and tells me we don't have to talk about it anymore.

Flipping onto my other side, I let his am slink over my waist. My turn to ask a question for the night. "What do**...**I mean, what _did _you do with the secrets?" I don't have to explain what I'm talking about. He knows. What surprises me is not his answer, but the way he says it: Without hesitation. Unlike me, there is no shame in what he speaks. "I write them down on a piece of paper, then burn it on the beach." Being the mysterious person he is, he doesn't explain the reason for it. Do I have to pry? "Why's that?"

"Because that's how little value I hold in their trusting of me. They expect me to be flattered that they are telling me that they wear a wig, or their nails are adhesive. I want to laugh in their faces each and every time they shriek in that God-awful Capitol accent whatever they deem a secret. I burn their secrets on the beach because I'm angry. They think I'll keep the secret forever, and think about it every now and then. They're _wrong_. The burn it, then never give it a second thought for the rest of my damn life. They are _nothing _to me. And I prove that on the beach. No one's there to see it, but that's okay, because I'll know it happened."

Inappropriately enough, I burst into laughter. I feel Finnick jerk in response at my unexpected reaction, and he starts to laugh as well when he realizes how close I am to tears, doubling over as I howl. "What the hell's so funny?" he chortles, reaching over to tuck hair behind my ear. I can hardly breathe as I turn back around so I'm looking into his eyes again. "We're _crazy_, Finnick." He grins and arches an eyebrow. "Is that so?" I nod, covering my mouth with my hand as the laughter subsides. "We are plotting to kill the president, I didn't love someone for the _stupidest reason_, and you're a borderline pyromaniac that likes dark metaphors." I throw my arms around him and pull him into a hug, loving the way things just stop mattering now. All that means anything anymore is that the two of us here, and we are _happy_. Not the small kind of happy where we had a nice dinner or we recount childhood memories, but the genuine happiness that radiates from every inch of you, and you forget that you were ever once sad. Even with the bombs in Thirteen having gone off just over a week ago, we can be happy. That says something about the two of us as a team: Together, we're a phoenix. Our lives are literally bombarded with ash and smoke, yet we find ourselves rising from that, finding happiness, hope, life. We are, essentially, Snow's worst enemy.

"Crazy people in a crazy country," he adds, and I do nothing but smile into his shoulder.


End file.
